Page 99 of One Billion Reasons

Where is the damn email? I check again. I’m curled on the impossibly comfortable couch this morning, under a wool throw, anxiously refreshing my email, checking my texts, texting Mallory, and then checking my email again. I’m wearing Miles’s sweatshirt, like I have since I got back from Montauk. Pathetic. But I can’t seem to take it off. It smells like him, and the world seems a little better when I have it on.

The city beyond the windows is grey and rainy, but it’s lovely through the huge panes of glass, even in the gloom.

I bite my lip and refresh email again. We saw an apartment yesterday and I desperately want it. It was too expensive and too small, but we can’t stay here anymore. Miles is generous, but living near him is too much to bear. And I hate feeling like I’m taking advantage of him. I made Mallory promise that we would take the first apartment we got.

A little part of me will miss being close to him. It feels like nothing can go wrong while I’m here. Like I’ll always be sheltered under Miles’s wing if I want to be. It feels like the last piece of Miles I’ll ever have to myself.

My phone rings, and I startle in the silence. An unknown 917 number. The broker? Hope is fluttery in my chest.

“Ms. Overton? It’s George.”

“Oh.” I grimace. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be rude. I thought you might be someone else.” Miles, perhaps.

George ignores my pathetic statement and says, “There’s an issue with the transfer. The wire is pending. The bank needs in-person verification. Can you be ready in thirty minutes? I’ll pick you up and take you to the bank.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I sigh. “Miles probably didn’t tell you I left early. He lost the property. Catherine found out it wasn’t real. There’s no need to transfer the money.”

“My instructions were the ensure the transfer went through. If you need to cancel it, you’ll need to do so in-person. The bank is demanding verification due to the amount. For any further action.”

“Okay. I’ll come with you and cancel it.” Silence. “Will he be there?” I hate that I’m asking, but I need to know. My emotions are a tangled knot, but one thing is clear—if last week was the last time I’ll ever see Miles Becker, I’ll regret it forever.

George clicks their tongue. “No, Mr. Becker is busy today.”

Oh. My heart feels like it’s rolled up into a ball and squeezed in a giant’s fist. My stomach is a pit, yawning, trying to swallow me whole. Mr. Becker. Is that who he’ll be to me from now on? A face in the tabloids, someone I see headlines about? A future rolls out before me of being a girl Miles used to know. Someone who watches his glittery success from the sidelines, sees his wedding photos on social media, hears about his happy life from Liam. I can’t bear it. I want to fling my phone across the room, but instead, I calmly tell George that I will see them downstairs in thirty minutes.

I pull on black jeans and black boots and a black sweater. My face looks like hell. Tired and puffy, with big blue bags under my eyes. I scrape my hair back into a headband and brush my teeth. There’s no point in looking nice. I’m not seeing clients today, and I’m not seeing him.

George is waiting downstairs next to a black Maybach. The same car that picked me up that day before the wedding. I thought it looked slick and stupid then, and I do now. George is wearing wide-leg black pants, loafers, and a black silk top. A slight smirk is firmly affixed to their face on coral-painted lips that make their full mouth pop, and they precede me into the car with a wave of their hand.

When we settle into the dark interior, George immediately pulls out two phones and starts tapping furiously at the screen of one while checking the other.

“I’m not sure why I thought you’d be driving,” I murmur as the car slides into traffic.

“I don’t drive,” George responds crisply. “Besides, there’s no need with the fleet of cars we have.”

“How many does he have?”

George’s head raises for just a second, their unsettlingly bright green eyes meeting mine. “Maybachs? Six or seven. I’m not sure.” They frown. “Enough that there’s never a wait.” They go back to tapping at the screen.

“And two phones?”

“One is mine. One is his.”

“You pick up his personal phone?”

“He receives very few calls on his personal phone. And no. I don’t.” I get the distinct impression that George is not interested in this conversation.

“What do you mean? He has friends, doesn’t he? Girlfriends?”

George shakes their head. “To my knowledge, you’re the only woman in his phone, other than his mother.”

My whole body is clenched. “Not even Amanda?”

“Why would Amanda be in his personal phone?” They finally stop typing and look up at me, the slightest crease appearing between their perfectly arched brows.

“Forget I asked,” I mutter.

George is still staring at me, and I shift in my seat, all too aware that I’m probably the grubbiest person to ride in this car, maybe ever.

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